


Blister

by Sokerchick



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s03e02 Cane and Able, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 14:51:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5295464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sokerchick/pseuds/Sokerchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the pain coming back it's the small things that finally cause House to break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blister

Wilson knocked on the door to House's apartment. No answer.

He nervously rapped again with his left hand, his right gripping the neck of the bottle of scotch he brought over as an 'I'm sorry I didn't believe you' gift. It had hurt like hell today when he had seen House walk in with the cane once again gripped firmly in his hand. 

The lull in pain from the ketamine had given House back the boyish energy that fighting the constant ache in his leg sapped. For Wilson seeing House like that again had given him hope. Hope that the man he made a friend ten years earlier was still there. While Greg House had never been a man who doled out hugs and flowery words five years ago the sarcasm had not been as biting nor was it aimed at Wilson. Well at least not as often.

Sighing he knocked again. The lack of reply caused him to fumble for the key in his pocket. Finally getting through the threshold of 221B Wilson glanced around not finding House in evidence. The perpetual mess didn't seem any messier than normal and there was no sign of his friend on the sofa or in the kitchen.

"House?"

"Go away." The disembodied voice floated in from the bathroom. 

"Hey."

"Go away." Bloodshot eyes met brown and Wilson frowned. House was drunk that was for sure if the red rimmed eyes were any indication. He was sitting haphazardly on the edge of the tub. His cane was propped against the wall by the toilet and it looked as if the older man couldn't decide whether to puke or pass out. But something in his eyes made him look closer.

"Go away."

"House I'm not going anywhere."

A hitch in his breath. "It won't stop. It hurts again. It didn't hurt but now it hurts again."

Wilson reanalyzed the situation. House was waaay more drunk than he first imagined. There was no way he would have said that without at least half a handle of Maker's Mark under his belt. "I know. I'm sorry about your leg."

Then surprisingly House looked confused and uncurled his right hand from where it had been resting in his lap. As the hand was slowly extended toward him Wilson could see what looked like the remnants of a blood blister that had burst leaving a rubbed away a strip of skin down the middle of the palm. Flicking his eyes to the top of the toilet he saw a first aid kit partially laid out as if House had lost even the energy to try half way through the procedure. 

Carefully taking the drunken man's hand in his own Wilson bandaged the offending limb applying liberal amounts of antibiotic ointment as he went. "It's okay. It'll heal up in a week or so and you'll have a callus. After that it won't hurt."

Wilson was leaned close to House as he put the final tie into the gauze to hold the two by two in place over the weeping wound. He noticed something, or rather didn’t. House didn’t smell of booze. The all too familiar waft of alcohol wasn’t on his breath, but his eyes had been red. House had been what crying?

House had had plenty of reasons to cry over the last five years but Wilson hadn’t seen him do it. Not once. Scream in frustration. Shut down, shut him out. Yes. But cry, never. Greg squeezed his eyes shut and a single salty tear fell onto his wrist. Carefully Wilson left his left hand cradling his friend’s injured one but moved his right behind his head gently carding his hand through the salt and pepper hair.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he pulled the bent brow to rest on his shoulder. At first there was resistance but suddenly all the tension evaporated and House’s head fell to rest on his friend.

“I thought it was over,” muffled against the fabric of Wilson’s shirt the words were more vibration than sound.

Knowing platitudes would be rebuked Wilson knelt silently. This new wound would take time to heal but eventually it would scab over, eventually it would leave behind a callused and callus man. 

Wilson sighed for the loss of his friend and maintained his vigil. He would stay as long as House needed him. All the while mourning the friend buried beneath the scars of his wounds.


End file.
